What a Dragon Should Know (30 page)

“As ruler of all fruits and vegetables, I’ll make sure to get right on that.”

“You can’t expect me to eat fruit that’s not perfectly ripe, and I’m extremely disappointed you didn’t consider my needs.”

“I don’t expect you to have a sound thought in that head of yours, either, but I do like to keep hope alive. And your needs, woman, will be met later tonight.”

Gwenvael bit into his own piece of fruit before shrugging. “It’s not an argument. It’s their bizarre idea of foreplay.”

“Really? And what’s your idea of foreplay?”

The fruit he’d only moments ago swallowed became lodged in his throat. He coughed, twice, until it moved a bit, able to freely go down his gullet.

“You all right?”

“I’ll be better when I get you back in your room.”

“That won’t happen for hours.” She held her chalice up so a servant could pour more wine into it.

“I never knew you were such a little tease, Beast.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Not on your life.”

The pair reared back a little when they realized the dining table was no longer in front of them.

“Were we done eating?” Dagmar asked, glancing suspiciously into her wineglass.

“You haven’t had too much to drink—the table’s really gone. And it seems it’s time for dancing.”

He held out his hand and opened his mouth to speak, but Dagmar cut him off.

“No.”

“You don’t even want to try?”

“No. Trust me. There are other things I’d rather do.”

“Such as?”

“Set myself on fire. Drown myself. Or hang myself from the roof. These are all preferable to dancing.”

Gwenvael laughed until his niece grabbed his hand. “Come on, Gwenvael! We’re dancing!” Izzy pulled him out of his seat with that healthy strength of hers.

“You’ll be all right?” he asked Dagmar, letting his niece grip his hand and put all her weight into trying to drag him forward.

“I’ll be fine.” She motioned him away with her chalice. “Go. Dance. Find me later—if you can.”

Evil little tease!
“I will.”

He let Izzy’s hand go abruptly, and his niece squealed and crashed to the floor. “Iseabail! What are you doing on the floor? Get up, girl! Have some pride!”

Dagmar was in love. Madly, adoringly in love.

She never dreamed she’d find a love as deep as this. But who knew? Who knew a sweet-faced, soft-spoken dragoness would have so much gossip and, even more importantly, be so willing to share it all with Dagmar!

Yes, it was love. Deep, never-ending love!

“And see the short red-haired male standing near Briec? The royal?”

Dagmar wanted to squint through her spectacles—those at a distance were fuzzier than usual due to her excesses of wine this evening—but she didn’t want to be obvious. Luckily, however, Morfyd’s brother Briec was quite easy to spot. Arrogance like that filled a room. “Yes.”

“I’ve been told,” she whispered, leaning close, “that he enjoys wearing his wife’s gowns. And when he does, his wife accidentally catches him in said gowns.”

“Is there scolding?”

“Aye!” Morfyd lowered her voice again. “Apparently she enjoys scolding him very, very,
very
firmly. In fact, she scolds him until they’re both quite exhausted and happy.”

Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “That is
fabulous.”

“Isn’t it?” Morfyd patted her leg. “I have to say, Dagmar, I am so glad you’ve visited. There are very few who have a true appreciation of delicious gossip. Except, of course, Gwenvael.”

“I expected that,” she admitted. “But no one else?”

“Fearghus doesn’t like to be bothered with anybody or anything. Everything irritates my eldest brother. Everything. Except Annwyl, of course, but even she can get on his nerves. Briec could care less about anybody or anything except himself and whether he can find something to argue with Talaith about.”

Wanting more on that, Dagmar began to ask, but Morfyd held up a halting hand. “Don’t ask. The whole thing is between the two of them and is idiotic. Éibhear is of no use to me because he refuses to believe the worst of anyone so he constantly interrupts me to say, ‘That can’t be true. That can’t be true.’ Which takes the piss right out of it.”

“Annwyl?”

“All she does is read. The woman lives in that library and she absolutely hates when you distract her from her precious books. If she isn’t killing, she’s reading. If she isn’t reading, she’s killing. There’s no middle ground with her.”

“And Talaith?”

“My one saving grace, but I can’t go on too long with her or she starts getting paranoid.”

“Paranoid?”

She rolled her eyes. “ ‘What are they saying about me? And what are you saying about me?’ Again, takes the piss right out.”

Dagmar laughed. “Well, you’ll be glad to know, I keep my paranoia for the important things.” Her gaze swept the room. “All I care about is what everyone else is up to.”

Morfyd grabbed hold of Dagmar’s hand, holding it close to her chest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but … I love you.”

Dagmar laid her free hand on top of Morfyd’s. “And I you.”

They began laughing again—something she’d done more in this one night than she’d done in her entire life.

Talaith swooped in, crash-landing on the chair on the other side of Dagmar. “I’m having a wonderful time!”

Morfyd whispered against Dagmar’s ear. “She’s drunk off her ass.”

“I am not drunk,” Talaith protested. “You witch. Bitch.” She giggled. “You bitchy witch.”

Talaith waved her hands. “All right. I may have had more wine than I should. But I still know the important question of the day.”

“And what is that?”

“Has little Dagmar here fucked our Gwenvael?”

Dagmar rubbed her leg where Talaith had slapped her to emphasize her rude question, and Morfyd turned a lovely shade of red, gasping out, “That’s none of our business!”

“Come on. I want to hear it from someone who isn’t completely captivated by those big, dumb dragon eyes of his. I want the truth! Is he as good as he claims to be?”

“Quiet!” Morfyd hissed.

“I don’t know the truth.” When the women stared at her, Dagmar shrugged. “I don’t.”

“Then don’t do it,” Talaith said earnestly. “Trust me on this.”

“Why not?”

Putting one arm around Dagmar, she motioned to Morfyd with the other. “Close your ears, woman, you don’t want to hear this.”

“Gods help me.”

Talaith leaned in close. “As I said, Magdar—”

“It’s Dagmar.”

“Whatever. You don’t want to do this because if he’s anything like his brother, you’ll be trapped. Caught for eternity.”

“And why will that happen?”

“Because he’ll fuck you until your eyes roll into the back of your head and that’ll be it! There will be no getting free from that, my dear. You’ll be trapped here. In this hell.”

Dagmar calmly glanced around. “This hell?” she asked flatly. “This castle-hell with pleasant servants to do your bidding, beautiful rolling hills and forests filled with fresh game, a benevolent queen, fierce dragons bent on protecting you and your daughter, and a gorgeous silver-haired warrior who’s madly in love with you? That hell?”

“Yes! You understand!”

“Perfectly. And I will keep this in mind if and when I get around to … uh … fucking Gwenvael.”

“Just make sure it’s what you want. Because once you’re in, you’re not getting out. And don’t let him brand you. You’ll be trapped with him forever!”

“Talaith!” Morfyd exclaimed.

“Branding? With actual irons?”

“No! It’s not like that,” Morfyd argued. “It’s called a Claiming. The brand is placed on you by the dragon you love
without
implements. It’s quite mystical and … romantic.”

“It’s hardly romantic,” Talaith muttered before she perked up and nearly shouted, “But it will make you come!”

Morfyd dropped her head into her hands. “Gods, please stop drinking and talking.” She glared at the human witch. “Just pass out already!”

Dagmar simply had to ask. “Talaith, are you unhappy with Briec?”

“Absolutely not!” She sighed deeply and looked moments from emotional tears. “I love him so much.”

“All right then.”

Morfyd shook her head when Dagmar glanced at her. “I won’t discuss it. I just accept they’re my kin and go on about my day.”

Patting Morfyd’s leg, Dagmar offered what comfort she could, “That’s probably for the best.”

Éibhear handed his brother a pint of ale when Gwenvael stumbled to a stop beside him. He grinned. “Duchess Bantor again?”

“It may appear that she only has two hands, but clearly she has six.”

“She’s been trying to get you into her bed for over a year.”

“Although never acknowledged by the lot of you, I do have standards.”

“She’s very pretty—huge breasts—and from what I understand willing to do anything.”

“Her hands grip me like claws. It makes me uncomfortable.
She
makes me uncomfortable.”

“And you have your sights set on someone else tonight.”

Now Gwenvael grinned. “I do.”

Éibhear pursed his lips and glanced away.

“What?” Gwenvael sighed. “What was that look for?”

“Nothing.”

“Just spit it out, little brother.”

Éibhear peered at his brother, wondering how to broach the topic tactfully. “It’s just …”

“It’s just what?”

“Don’t you think Lady Dagmar’s just a little … well … that she’s …”

“That she’s what?”

Éibhear decided to be cautiously direct. “A little bit beyond you?”

“Sorry?”

“She reads an awful lot. I talked to her for quite a bit, and she’s so knowledgeable.
Extremely
knowledgeable.”

Gwenvael put his hands on his hips. “You think she’s too smart for me?”

“Perhaps ‘more savvy’ is a better phrase.”

“You oversized cub!”

“Don’t get mad. I’m only suggesting you should aim … a little … lower.”

“What kind of brother are you?”

“An honest one. Would you prefer I lie to you?”

“Yes!” Gwenvael yelled, slamming the ale back into Éibhear’s hand. “As a matter of fact, I
would
prefer that!”

Dagmar was sneaking out the back of the castle when she saw her leaning against some fencing, her head on her folded arms. She approached slowly, cautiously.

“Annwyl?”

The queen’s head snapped up. “Oh. Dagmar.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just needed some fresh air.”

She needed bed. There was a light sheen of sweat on her and her hands trembled.

Dagmar heard the soft mutterings all evening from the few human royals who were at the court. Annwyl was not the Annwyl they remembered. Her hair had thinned; her face had lost its luster, becoming drawn and lined. Her arms and legs were much too thin for someone so weighed down with child. Since Dagmar knew nothing of the queen before she’d met her—except for the rumors, of course—she couldn’t tell one way or the other. But Dagmar did know when a birth was at risk. She knew the signs well.

“Why don’t I get Fearghus to—”

“Please don’t.” She forced a smile. “It’s been so long since he’s had some time to himself and he’s enjoying his kin—for once.”

Dagmar chuckled. “I understand that. I can help you up, though. To your room.”

“You don’t have to.” Yet her eyes were begging for that bit of help.

“You’re giving me a reason to get out of there.” She went over to Annwyl and slipped one arm around what remained of her waist. Dagmar forced herself not to physically flinch when her fingers felt actual ribs beneath the queen’s gown. She took Annwyl’s arm with her free hand. “Come on. I think two mere humans can manage this, don’t you?”

Annwyl laughed. “I would hope so.”

Together they made their plodding way to the back stairs and up them. It wasn’t easy and Dagmar wasn’t exactly known for her momentous strength, but she handled it better than she could have hoped. Keeping the conversation light with stories of her vapid sisters-in-law, Dagmar helped the queen to get out of her gown and washed up. Then she helped her into bed, smiling when she realized the queen was already asleep before Dagmar was able to cover her with the fur bedding.

She silently slipped out of the room, closing the door, when she heard a woman’s voice. “Oh, Gwenvael! I simply adore you!”

Dagmar looked down the hallway and watched as Gwenvael led some big-breasted royal toward his room.

Shaking her head at her own idiocy—
Did you really think you had a bolt’s chance in hell with that?
—Dagmar turned and headed back to the stairs and the fresh night air.

Gwenvael didn’t think he’d ever pry Duchess Bantor off his neck. She clung to him like a vine, the wine she’d been guzzling all evening making her much bolder and harder to get rid of than usual. He finally dumped her off at her room into the arms of a giggling servant girl who liked the way he crossed his eyes when her ladyship drunkenly told him to “take me, Gwenvael. Take me now!”

Chuckling, Gwenvael went down the four flights of stairs to the second floor, walked past his own room, and rounded a corner, walking right into Briec.

“Ho there, Briec! What a delightful ass you’re carrying.”

“A delightful
drunken
ass.”

“I’m not drunk.”

Gwenvael grinned. “The ass speaks.”

“Put me down!” the ass demanded. “I can walk on my own.”

“As you wish.” Briec dropped his package, and Talaith grabbed hold of her mate’s arm to prevent her rear from hitting the floor.

“See?” she said, when she’d finally found her balance. “I’m as dry as the desert sands.”

And to prove it, Briec pulled his arm away. With nothing to hold on to, Talaith went down like a stone statue Gwenvael once stole.

Talaith glared up at Briec. “Bastard.”

“I told you, my beautiful Talaith, that
I
was the dragon for you,” Gwenvael reminded her. “But no. You had to go with the arrogant one. Whereas I am always loving and charming and simply wonderful to be around. There isn’t an arrogant bone in my beautiful, perfect body.”

Briec’s eye twitched seconds before he jerked toward his brother, but Gwenvael held up his hands. “Not the face! Not the face! I have plans for this evening and my perfection must remain unmarred.”